


They'll Be Fine

by TogetherAgain



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Corona Virus - Freeform, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Footnotes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23253868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TogetherAgain/pseuds/TogetherAgain
Summary: A demon, an angel, and a post-apocalyptic epidemic.____________________________________“Unlike theseotherplants!” he said, raising his voice as he glared at all the frightened flora in the room. “All theseglorified decorations… youhave an actualpurposenow.Ifyou canhandlethat.” He gripped the sides of the aloe plant’s pot and lowered himself to look at it—er, well, face-to-leaf, so to speak? It was shaking even worse, so it must’ve worked. “Apparently,” he told the plant, his voicedangerouslylight, “You can be used to help make hand sanitizer.”Crowley did not need hand sanitizer. He had no idea what he was going to do with hand sanitizer. Or, no, well—obviously, he was going todistributeit, but—how, and where, and to whom, he had no idea yet. His plants didn’t need to know that, though. He would figure it out.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 52





	They'll Be Fine

**They’ll Be Fine**

“And _you_ ,” Crowley snarled, wheeling around to give his aloe plant the sort of glare that could kill some lower life forms. “No more _skating by_ for _you_. Don’t think I don’t know you’re slacking!”

The aloe plant trembled a little more fiercely than it had been. _All_ of Crowley’s plants were trembling, of course, but being the exact _target_ of his threats came with a whole new level of horror. 

Crowley had already been terrorizing the general population of his plants for a while now. The aloe plant would be the grand finale. With his new plant mister[1] still dangling from his fingers, he stalked around his target like a hungry animal circling its prey. “I do _not_. Have time. For _you_ to be _slacking_ ,” he told the plant. He was worked up enough that it took a conscious effort to keep from hissing. “You’re not just for _looksss_ now.”

 _That_ hiss was fine, of course. It was all about the effect.

“Unlike these _other_ plants!” he said, raising his voice as he glared at all the frightened flora in the room. “All these _glorified decorations_ … _you_ have an actual _purpose_ now. _If_ you can _handle_ that.” He gripped the sides of the aloe plant’s pot and lowered himself to look at it—er, well, face-to-leaf, so to speak? It was shaking even worse, so it must’ve worked. “Apparently,” he told the plant, his voice _dangerously_ light, “You can be used to help make hand sanitizer.”

Crowley did not need hand sanitizer. He had no idea what he was going to do with hand sanitizer. Or, no, well— _obviously_ , he was going to _distribute_ it, but—how, and where, and to whom, he had no idea yet. His plants didn’t need to know that, though. He would figure it out.

He let go of the pot and straightened up. “ _Lots_ of demand for hand sanitizer these days,” he told the aloe plant. “You do your job _well_ enough, and there _might_ even be a new _pot_ in it for you. A nice _big_ one.” There would absolutely be a nice big new pot for the aloe plant. It would need a bigger pot so that it could grow bigger, and produce more aloe. A little incentivizing never hurt, though. “But let me be _completely_ clear,” he went on, circling the plant again. “I will. Not. _Tolerate_. Anything _less_ than absolute _perfection_!” He leaned in close again. “And you _know_ what happens if you _disssssappoint_ me,” he hissed. “Ssso… _STEP IT UP, ALREADY_!”

He straightened up again and regarded the entire room with a long, cool stare. With a dramatic little twirl of his plant mister, he turned and swaggered out of the room.

Screaming at his plants always made him feel better—or, well, _lighter_ , at least. But as he brought the mostly-empty plant mister to the kitchen sink, he knew it just wasn’t enough today. Next step would be a _very_ fast drive in the Bentley. Straight to Aziraphale. Or, maybe not _straight_ there, maybe take the long way, wind around the streets some more, work in some more insanely fast driving, weaving through traffic at speeds that would make a racecar driver swoon.

He would try to ignore how _light_ the traffic would be.

Maybe he would go straight to the bookshop, after all.

He left the mister by the sink and pushed himself back out of the kitchen, aiming to _leave_ , get to the Bentley, get to the angel.

He froze a mere foot outside his kitchen.

Sniffed.

Inhaled slowly, letting the familiar aroma wash over him.

And then he turned, because the shortest path to Aziraphale was through his office door.

Their boundaries had pretty much disintegrated after Armageddon, but it was still unusual for Aziraphale to come _here_ , to Crowley’s flat. Crowley had made it clear that he was welcome any time, no need to ask or knock or announce himself or anything— _My house is your house, angel_ —and Aziraphale had even taken him up on it a few times now, so seeing him here wasn’t a _surprise_ , exactly. It was more surprising that Crowley hadn’t noticed his entrance.

But here he was, now. Aziraphale. Standing as straight as ever, in the same cream coat he’d worn almost constantly for nearly two centuries now. He had his back to the door, so he hadn’t seen Crowley come in. He was standing behind the throne, silently wringing his hands, and staring at the television. It showed a news report. And then, it showed a _different_ news report, from a different country. And then another news report, from somewhere else.

Crowley slowly crept into the room and made his way around the desk, around the throne, until he was standing next to the angel. Aziraphale immediately spared him a glance and a tight smile, but then he turned his attention back to the television. He squinted[2] at the screen, and it obediently flicked over to yet another news report from yet another country.

That explained why he was _here_ , then. Aziraphale did not own a television. He got his news from the newspaper, and sometimes from the same radio he’d used during the World Wars[3]. Those were all well and good most of the time, but to get the news from all over the world all at once, a radio wasn’t going to cut it.

So they both stood and stared at the screen as it showed news reporters all over the world, sitting six feet away from their coworkers. The reporters all talked, in their various languages[4], about all the things that were closed, canceled, or postponed indefinitely. They talked about social distancing. Schools shutting down—there were occasional images of empty classrooms. They talked about people rushing out to stores, and showed all the empty shelves that usually held toilet paper, or paper towels, or eggs, or butter. They talked about the psychological toll, the isolation, the lost jobs and income. The government mandates to “shelter in place,” and the criticism of government officials who failed to give such mandates. The fear, the panic, the anxiety, the confusion. The _numbers_. How many confirmed cases. How many deaths. How many ventilators were needed. Over and over and over, voices and faces from all over the world.

The hard thing, the stressful thing, about being an immortal, supernatural entity living on Earth, was that sometimes it all went sideways. Sometimes disaster struck, massive, truly _global_ disaster, and you were certain that you _had_ to do _something_ , because you could _literally_ perform _miracles_ , bless it! And you had no idea what to do or where to start, and no matter how powerful you were, you knew you weren’t powerful enough. It was overwhelming, and devastating, and sickening. It destroyed everything inside of you, and you had no choice but to just go on _living through it_ , because you were _immortal_. Or, well, close enough to that.

This was one of those times.

And looking at Aziraphale’s face, now… well.

Aziraphale didn’t have any plants to yell at to blow off steam. No customers to chase away, either. And here he was drowning himself in the news, gulping it all down like it was the cheap booze they’d guzzled one fateful night in 1941[5], when their only real purpose in drinking was to get drunk enough to allow themselves to indulge in a loose half-hug and a good long cry.

They no longer needed to get drunk to allow themselves to touch. In the months since Armageddon, they had been touching more and more often, but Crowley was still skittish about _initiating_ it, while sober, without the guise of it being “accidental.”

Right now, though. Right now, Aziraphale had that _look_ on his face. That lost, miserable look that conveyed a feeling of utter helplessness, complete uselessness.

So Crowley stepped closer and firmly wrapped his arm around the angel’s shoulders.

Aziraphale sighed, and some of the tension in his body eased a little as he covered Crowley’s hand with his own. He squinted at the television, and the program changed again.

This time it showed a news reporter in a split screen with some sort of expert, who was clearly communicating via webcam from some other location. Social distancing, again. Crowley had no idea what country this newscast was from, or even what language it was in, but it was one they both understood. The expert was talking very specifically about the virus, how it spread, how long it could live on surfaces, how long it could take to show symptoms, and what those symptoms were.

“Can you imagine,” Aziraphale said quietly, still staring at the television, “if we had had this kind of information during the plague?”

Crowley let out a thoughtful hum. “Can you imagine if we’d had this kind of _hygiene_ during the plague,” he countered.

Aziraphale let out a little huff. “There wouldn’t have been a _plague_ ,” he said.

“Mm.” Crowley shifted to stand behind Aziraphale, both arms wrapping around him as he set his chin on the angel’s left shoulder. “There would’ve. Just wouldn’t have been so…” He lifted one hand and gestured vaguely with it. “…Plaguey,” he settled on.

“…I don’t think _plaguey_ is a word, dear,” Aziraphale said delicately. “…Yet, at least.”

“Give it a bit. It’ll catch on.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale quietly folded his arms to catch both of Crowley’s hands in his own. He gave the demon’s fingers a light squeeze. “Let’s hope it doesn’t have cause to,” he said softly, still staring at the television.

Crowley held him a little tighter and nuzzled against his cheek.

“They _will_ be alright. Won’t they?” Aziraphale asked. His voice was somewhere between wistful and desperate.

“Course they will,” Crowley said. “Long term, I mean—I mean, they _have_ all the, the information, the hygiene, and all that. They’ll be fine. Might change things, some, but give it a decade or two and they’ll barely even remember why. This’ll be remembered as The Great Toilet Paper Shortage of 2020.”

Well, _that_ was pushing it. Humans _would_ remember why things changed, if anything stayed changed once this all blew over. And maybe things _would_ change permanently. Maybe there would be massive cultural shifts all over the world. But right now, Aziraphale’s face tugged into something resembling a sarcastic smile, and that was what mattered. “Yes, the toilet paper hoarding. Was that you, dear?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “No, actually. But if I still reported to Head Office, I would definitely claim it[6].”

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose I just… I _know_ they’re—taking precautions, now, and they _do_ at least _know_ about germs, and they _have_ better hygiene and sanitation and they have _all_ this information, but—well, but _part_ of me can’t help thinking… Crowley, did we—were we just—delaying the inevitable? With this, now?”

At some point, and he’d already forgotten when exactly, Crowley had had the same thought. Now he just nuzzled in closer. “They’ll make it through, angel. You know they will. They always _do_ ,” he murmured. “We can’t just shrug off all the advances they’ve made. Even since the Spanish Flu. This is… this’ll barely be a speed bump, compared to the bubonic plague.”

The angel nodded, but the logic wasn’t really getting through, and Crowley knew it. Aziraphale had been on the front lines of too many epidemics. He had seen deadly diseases spread so far and so fast that the humans ran out of coffins, and then gave up on burials altogether—which only made things worse. Toilet paper shortages were nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things, but something about the empty shelves in stores felt ominous.

“Look at it this way. They’re still here to be _able_ to fight this. Starting at full strength.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. “…Oh, good Lord,” he whispered. “This would’ve been the final blow, wouldn’t it? Anyone who was still left…”

“Probably,” Crowley said. “And instead, they’re all here, and… taking walks outside, pretending to work from home, all—worrying about getting on each other’s nerves in self-quarantine. Livestreaming everything instead of meeting in person. They’ll be fine.”

Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley took another look at the television, which Aziraphale was still staring at. With a sigh, he snapped and turned it off. “No use staring at bad news all day. Not healthy, either,” he said. He gave the angel one last comforting squeeze, and then he let go and took a step back. “C’mon, angel. High time I introduced you to social media.”

That probably wasn’t the most convincing argument. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. “Crowley…”

“I’m spreading around some videos of song parodies all timed to be just long enough for proper handwashing.”

 _Ha_. Got his eyes open.

“All the kind of song that sticks in your head a lot. But just a tiny part of each. And it’s the wrong words, so there’s no getting it out, because listening to the real one won’t fix it. _Really_ annoying that way.”

And now Aziraphale had the sort of suppressed smirk he got when he was trying to pretend he _didn’t_ appreciate Crowley’s sense of mischief. He also had the sort of warm glowy look in his eyes that meant he was thinking about calling Crowley _nice_ , and that wouldn’t do.

“It’s _very_ demonic of me[7],” Crowley said quickly, with the same mild, flat sort of tone he _always_ used when he was trying to pass off his thinly-disguised good deeds as being evil.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Aziraphale was aiming for sarcasm, but his voice was a little too warm to quite make it there. “How _ever_ am I going to thwart you.”

Crowley spread his arms in a dramatic shrug. “I’m _sure_ you’ll manage. There’s always cat videos,” he said.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “How would… _cat_ _videos_ thwart you?”

“Nnngh… They’re—cute and fluffy and adorable. Bane of my existence, really,” Crowley said, awkwardly squirming around to rub the back of his neck in a close[8] approximation of how humans did it. “… _Also_ possibly mildly addictive…”

And now Aziraphale was _definitely_ smirking at him, because he had obviously _not_ just admitted to having a slight cat video addiction. “I see.”

A smirk was close enough to a smile. That was a start. And later, he could ask for Aziraphale’s input about his half-baked idea for a hand sanitizer distribution scheme. Together, they would get each other through the emotional bits. Together, they would make as much of a difference as two immortal supernatural entities could, and they would quietly relish the fact that they _could_ work together, without any excuses or lies or cover-ups to pass along to Head Office.

And as for the humans… they would be humans. Most of them would stay home. Most of them would survive. Sooner or later, they would come out of this on top, and they would all live life to its absolute fullest for a while.

They would be fine.

[1] The new plant mister was a gift from Aziraphale after Armageddon. It was all black, except for the utterly ridiculous, completely impractical ribbon tied around its neck. The ribbon was tartan. Crowley complained and whined and groaned about it endlessly. He also blamed Aziraphale for the fact that the ribbon had _somehow_ been miracled to never fade, stain, tatter, or fray, and to never ever be removed from the plant mister by any means. Aziraphale had done no such thing, but he saw no point in stating the obvious.

[2] Most people changed the channel with a remote, and Crowley was fairly certain his television had come with one, which meant he had to have one somewhere. He was also fairly certain Aziraphale wouldn’t have known how to use one, and he had no idea where it was, anyway. He usually changed the channel by snapping. Aziraphale probably would have done the same, but it’s hard to snap and wring your hands at the same time.

[3] Or at least, he’d used it during the Second World War, and Crowley _assumed_ he had also used it for the first one. They hadn’t technically been on speaking terms at the time.

[4] Language barriers weren’t much of a thing for them. They mostly spoke English these days, but Aziraphale and Crowley had accumulated a lot of languages over the years. A lot of those languages were no longer remotely useful, of course, and there were too many languages for it to be possible to be fluent in ALL of them. Aziraphale insisted he had been “working on” his French for the last 227 years, but he was “working on” it the same way Crowley was “working on” learning Korean, so… the newscasts from both France and South Korea miraculously happened to have English subtitles.

[5] A lot happened that night. You know the one. A church got bombed. Some Nazis died. Books were saved. Communication was re-established after 78 years, six months, eleven days, eight hours… not that anyone had _counted_ or anything, of course. Just, you know… did the math. Afterwards. Right, anyway. It was a long night, is my point.

[6] In Crowley’s absence, five different demons had all attempted to take credit for the toilet paper shortages. No one in Hell believed any of them, because everyone knew full well that The Traitor was (regrettably) still alive and on Earth, so probably any random mischief type of thing that no one figured would actually get Hell any souls anyway was _probably_ his doing. All five demons claiming credit for toilet paper shortages were therefore severely reprimanded. No rude notes were involved.

[7] Several weeks ago, Aziraphale had drunkenly pointed out that Crowley was, of course, a _demon_ , and therefore everything he did was, by default, _demonic_. Including hugging and cuddling, although those examples were usually 50% angelic, since Aziraphale was also involved. Crowley still felt the need to justify himself, though. Or maybe he just liked doing it. He wasn’t really sure which.

[8] Well… sort of. Depending on your definition.

**Author's Note:**

> So normally, I have three jobs. Three teaching jobs. And when the school I work at full-time closed for three weeks, I thought, "Well, okay... I have some extra time to, like... sleep. And write!" Because I kid you not, I have a list of seventeen different Good Omens fics I've been meaning to write. And then THIS thing just appeared in my head and refused to be ignored, so... I'll get back to that list tomorrow, I guess? In the mean time, the religious school I work at one day a week is also closed for now, and yesterday the governor announced a "stay at home" order that went into effect today, so now I'm waiting for an email that will somehow train me on how to do e-learning for the tutoring center I work at. And that will be good, but it's still only _some_ of the kids I work with. I miss my students.
> 
> Stay safe, everyone. Stay HOME, as much as you can, because that's the best way for ALL of us to fight this thing right now. Those of you who HAVE to work, doctors and nurses and pharmacists and grocery store employees and janitors and custodians and truck drivers and more: You are HEROES and I THANK YOU.


End file.
